


a cocktail and a kiss on the cheek

by cobweb_diamond



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Clothing, F/F, Femslash, Show Business
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-03
Updated: 2011-01-03
Packaged: 2017-10-14 09:28:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/147813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cobweb_diamond/pseuds/cobweb_diamond
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Canon AU in which Saito takes the team out to celebrate their success. Mal is a cabaret singer, an idea based on the Lady Dior adverts starring Marion Cotillard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a cocktail and a kiss on the cheek

**a cocktail and a kiss on the cheek**

 ****  
Once the five of them have reconvened in Paris, Saito takes them out to celebrate. Cobb is now happily ensconced in a suburban gated community with his kids and a freshly expunged criminal record, and none of them have any desire to call him just yet. Ariadne thinks Saito might have flown over specially; she’s not sure. It all feels very corporate and everyday -- everyday for billionaire CEOs, anyway -- compared to the last month of furtive false identities and rapid-fire explanations of dreamsharing technique. 

This isn’t the kind of place she usually goes to. A drink costs more than she’d ordinarily spend on an entire meal, and every person in the room is in eveningwear.

There’s a stage set up across the room from the bar counter, red drapes hanging heavy at the sides lending a sultry glow to the lighting. Currently the stage is occupied by a middle-aged West-Indian man singing jazz classics in a low, sweet voice. When they sit down he’s singing Mack The Knife in a mixture of French, German and English, and Ariadne’s attention is divided equally between his performance and Arthur ordering an improbably complex-sounding drink from the waiter. Once Arthur has finished his ridiculously exacting request, Eames just says, ‘Scotch,’ with mocking succinctness and stretches his arm along the back of Yusuf’s chair, raising an eyebrow in Arthur’s direction. 

Saito is a good host, she’ll give him that. He manages to effortlessly direct the conversation through entertaining but impersonal waters right up until the room quietens and a spotlight opens on the stage, illuminating absolutely nothing. Once everyone’s eyes have been drawn to the tightening iris of the spotlight, the room is suddenly plunged into absolute darkness. When the light flicks back on a huge, hourglass-like glass jar has appeared centre-stage, a trickle of fine red beads making their way down to the bottom. There is a woman inside it as well, her legs slowly being buried under a snowdrift flurry of red, gradually exposing her raised fingertips in the top bulb of the hourglass. Fingertips, then a smooth cap of black  hair, then dark eyes that flick sharply open as soon as they are exposed, then her whole face. Her shoulder’s are creamy-pale and a long, tantalising moment hangs in the air during which Ariadne (and the rest of the audience, subtly craning their necks) is not certain whether or not the woman is wearing anything in there at all. She’s paying such close attention to the gradual uncovering of a strapless black slip and translucent stocking-tops, the woman’s gaze directed downwards to show off perfect half-moons of grey eyeshadow, that it takes a moment for Ariadne to realise that music is building in the background, a slow beat. The woman’s lips are painted a deep, bluish burgundy, and for a second one of the tiny beads clings to them before falling to join the rest. Over the top of the low, pulsing piano music it is just about possible to hear the hiss of the beads streaming into the lower bulb of the jar.

‘Who is she?’ Ariadne whispers as two men come onstage to lift up the jar, somehow freeing the woman without dislodging a single one of the red beads.

‘That’s   
what you ask?’ says Yusuf, amused.

‘I believe her name is Mal,’ says Saito. His legs are crossed lazily at the ankle, shoes polished to a dull glow, and he looks as if he’s posing for a casual portrait in Forbes magazine. Of course Saito would know. 

Mal stands still, face impassive, until the jar has been carried away. Then she walks over to the grand piano in the corner of the stage and opens a slim briefcase that has apparently been sitting there this entire time. She takes out a dress, unfolding it in a long, fish-scale fall of silver fabric before stepping into it and pulling it up over her stockings and slip. Ariadne has never been to anything resembling a burlesque show before, but she supposes that this is it. Mal might be putting clothes on rather than taking them off, but as she turns her back to the audience so they can see her do up the hooks along the spine of her bodice, Ariadne’s breath catches in her throat. The hooks are clasp together with methodical slowness, black silk and pale skin gradually disappearing in an ever-decreasing slice. The audience is silent and rapt as Mal raises her arms over her head in a lazy stretch, her dress now completely buttoned up and cinching taught around her waist as she turns to survey them, eyes knowing and a smirk lingering at the corner of her mouth. 

The piano’s slow tune bleeds through and Mal strolls over to where the pianist sits, reaching behind him to pick up a pair of precariously high-heeled shoes, far higher than Ariadne would ever consider wearing. She leans over to put one of the shoes on, resting her foot on the piano stool and having to use both hands to do up the slim silver buckle, long red nails delicate delicate and dangerous. The slit of her dress falls open, exposing the very edge of one stocking-top.

It’s one of those times when Ariadne has to try and remind herself that breasts are    
really not all that special   
. She has a pair of her own. So do about 50% of the human race. It should not be as fantastic as it is to see Mal lean over, generous cleavage displayed against the stiff, glimmering bodice of her dress. Ariadny isn’t even sitting very close to the stage, but still she thinks she can see the gentle rise and fall of Mal’s breath as she moves, her skin perfectly soft and even-looking under the spotlight as she straightens up and the pianist picks up his pace. When she breaks into song it’s almost a surprise, her voice soft and husky.

She’s singing in French, and Ariadne only half pays attention to the words. Instead she’s watching the slow sway of Mal’s hips, the way she glides across the floor despite the fact that her heels must be at least five inches tall. She’s undeniably talented: every sardonic twitch of her eyebrows designed to flirt with the audience’s attention, every twist of her fingers in the air tailored to make them follow her movements with bated breath. 

When the song is over, Ariadne has to be startled into clapping. This place is far too high-class for there to be any wolf-whistling, but the applause is loud and enthusiastic. Mal barely acknowledges it, turning on her heel and nodding to the pianist to keep playing. 

Ariadne sits through four more songs in a daze. Mal never uses a microphone but the room is silent enough that every word is audible above the rustle of her armour-like dress and the clink of ice cubes in peoples’ drinks. She keeps expecting Mal to speak, to introduce the songs or herself or try to talk to the audience, but as soon as the music stops she goes silent. The sway of her hips is mesmerising as she crosses the stage, the hem of her skirts swishing around her ankles to distract from where her feet touch the ground.

When guys tell you you have pretty eyes it’s never anything more than a cheap line. And if they    
believe   
it when they say it, well, then it’s not just a cheap line -- it’s proof that they’re also an unimaginative idiot. But Ariadne finds herself thinking that Mal’s eyes really are beautiful. Beautiful and sad, and exquisitely painted so that even the smallest flutter of eyelashes is telegraphed to the whole room. As the last note of the piano dies down, she closes her eyes for a second before walking over to where her briefcase sits, still open, at the side of the stage. She pantomimes searching through it, turning the pockets inside-out, her lips a moue of annoyance.    
Oh, wherever can it have got to   
?

Her teeth are a glimpse of white as she opens her mouth, confused. Then she seems to realise something --    
aha!   
\-- and, with another silent-movie gesture, gets to her feet and reaches down the front of her dress with two red-tipped fingers, painted eyebrow raised tauntingly at the audience.    
Found it!

She pulls out a key and keychain, silver like her dress, and Ariadne hears the tinkle of metal on metal for a second before the audience begins to laugh, applauding Mal as she saunters along the front of the stage, displaying her newly-discovered key. But Ariadne’s gaze is still drawn to the dip of Mal’s breasts disappearing under the rigid line of her dress, where the key must have been hiding this whole time. In recent weeks Eames has taught her (among other things) that 90% of sleight of hand is misdirection.

Ariadne is certainly feeling misdirected right now.

Mal’s face is all soft shadows and the barest hint of a smirk as she descends the stairs at the side of the stage, her heels clacking on the hardwood floor. A few people turn in their chairs for a better view as she stalks along the front row, trailing her fingertips along the surface of the first few tables. 

‘I’m going to have to leave soon,’ she says in English, and her speaking voice is just as beautiful as she is when she’s singing. She holds up the keychain, key swinging merrily back and forth to glint in the spotlights. ‘But this is the key to my dressing room.’ She brings it up to her mouth to bite down, like an Olympic champion proving their medal is real gold. Everything about her, from the smooth waves of her hair to her curving lips to the way she sways out of the way to avoid the beckoning hand of a man in the front row... all of it is so soft in comparison to the sharp clack of her teeth against metal.

Ariadne crosses her legs, and Eames smirks at her from across the table. She truly has no idea why men go to places like this on business trips, never mind lap-dancing clubs or whatever. The only thing more horrifying than getting turned on in the company of your coworkers is having one of those coworkers be Eames, who is not only one of the most perspicacious people Ariadne has ever met but is also the most likely to mock you based on the things he observes.

‘Would you like it?’ Mal asks to a woman in the front row, sitting at a private table with her husband. The woman smiles and giggles and Mal walks straight by, key dangling just out of the woman’s reach. Her fingers curl round the stem of one man’s glass, bringing it up to drain it as she walks past, depositing it on the next table along. The rim is smudged with burgundy lipstick.

Mal’s nails tap against the keychain,    
tick tick tick   
, as she twirls in and out of the little tables, evading grabbing hands and catcalls with a wink and a smile. Ariadne chances a look around her own table. Arthur is leaning back in his chair, arm stretched out to stir lazily at his drink. Yusuf looks like he’s enjoying himself. Eames is watching the crowd. Saito is as inscrutable as ever. Saito, Ariadne thinks, is the one Mal will pick if she reaches their table. Saito is richer than god, good looking and makes everything look as effortless as a breeze, up to and including toppling empires. Probably Mal predetermines who she’s going to pick before each show. Birthday parties, maybe, or people who know to pay extra at the door. Maybe her bosses at the bar    
tell   
her who to pick, if this is a regular thing. Still, Ariadne can’t help wondering what Mal’s dressing room is like. What goes on in there. The careful way she’d put on the silver dress over her slip and underwear, but this time in reverse.

Even the steady approach of Mal’s staccato heels and reflective, ever-moving dress are making Ariadne’ heart beat faster. 

‘Hello,’ says Mal, when she reaches their table. Ariadne has to make sure she isn’t gaping. It doesn’t seem possible, but Mal is even more beautiful up close. Her dress looks stiff and uncomfortable, and Ariadne wants to run her fingers down Mal’s neck and along the curve of her breast to where the dress must be digging in, put her hands between the dress and --

‘Hello,’ says Eames.

Mal walks around the table and Ariadne bites her lip, not even realising she’s doing it until Mal’s gaze alights on her, grey eyes dark and shadowed. The room key is dangling from one of her fingers, jangling as she stretches out a hand -- inconceivably -- towards Ariadne. ‘You,’ she says simply, and tosses the key into her lap. The audience applauds, laughing, but Ariadne barely even cares if she’s meant to be a punchline in this situation because Mal is looking at her with eyes full of promise, lips slightly parted as if she’s about to say something else. But all she does is let her hand fall to her side, as languorous as every other movement she makes, and turns away.

Arthur tries to make fun of her but it falls flat because Ariadne can’t be bothered summoning enough wit to fight back. She lets him and Eames bicker over whiskey during the next act, a jazz band that gets much of the audience to go out and dance. Out of courtesy she agrees to dance with Saito and then Eames, but her mind is in on the dressing room key she’s tucked into her purse back at the table. She can’t decide if she’s a punchline or if Mal really    
did   
pick her, of all people. Perhaps Mal is just sick of having businessmen paw her in her dressing-room after shows, and picked out the most harmless-looking person in the club.

When is she supposed to go to the dressing room? Is she supposed to go at all? Eventually she gives up and goes over to the bar, Eames’ knowing look following in her wake, ignored.

‘Excuse me?’ she says in French. The bartender turns around.

‘Yes?

‘I have the dressing room key. For the singer.’ She has to make an effort not to sound uncertain.

‘Ah, yes,’ he says. He sounds uninterested, if anything. ‘The door is to the right of the stage. Go right on through.’

The corridor leading backstage is dark and wood-panelled. As soon as the door swings shut behind her Ariadne pulls out the spiderweb-fine chain round her neck, bringing out her totem. Just to make sure. 

When she gets to the dressing room door she doesn’t give herself any time to psych herself out. She just slips the key into the lock.

When the door opens, she forgets to take the key out for a long while. Mal stands startled in the middle of the room with one foot resting on a stool, in the process of unbuckling one of her shoes. The other shoe lies discarded on the floor beneath one of the chairs. Everything is bathed in the glow from the frosted lightbulbs set around the vanity mirror. Ariadne’s surprised they’re there -- she’d always assumed that the lightbulb thing was one of those things you saw in movies that didn’t actually exist in real life.

‘Hi,’ she says, forgetting to speak French. She’s already blushing. Goddamn fair skin.

‘Hi,’ says Mal. ‘Close the door?’

‘My name is Mal,’ she says, dropping her shoe on the floor. 

‘I know,’ says Ariadne. ‘I mean, I asked someone earlier. I’m Ariadne.’ This is just    
embarrassing   
. She hasn’t been this flustered around a woman since she was a teenager. But Mal is just standing there, wearing that phenomenal dress and looking at her quizzically like she’s expecting something. ‘I can go, if you want?’

‘I gave you the key for a reason,’ is all Mal says, and reaches behind herself to start unhooking the clasps of her dress. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’

‘No, I -- ‘ says Ariadne. ‘No.’

Mal smiles. ‘Good,’ she says, her arms moving slowly down behind her back, still unbuttoning. ‘Do you want a drink?’ 

‘Sure,’ says Ariadne. She isn’t an idiot. The fact that Mal is undressing in front of her has got to --    
got to   
\-- mean something. On the other hand, this    
is    
a dressing room.

‘I have some things over there,’ she says, pointing towards one of the cupboards, and Ariadne takes that as her cue to turn around while Mal steps out of the dress. She busies herself opening the cabinet and sorting through the liquor bottles inside, trying not to picture what’s going on behind her to make those noises of fabric rustling and sliding against skin. 

‘Do you want one as well?’ she asks, fumbling for glasses as she sees a half-reflection of Mal shrugging off her dress in the glass of the cabinet door.

‘Whatever you choose,’ comes Mal’s voice and Ariadne, faced with so many choices, thinks a little hysterically of Arthur’s agonisingly specific cocktail instructions to the waiter when they’d first arrived. In the end she just mixes them both vodka tonics and throws in a few melting ice-cubes from the metal bowl inside the liquor cabinet.

When she turns around, Mal is sitting by the vanity in her slip and stockings. ‘Thank you,’ she says, smiling again, and takes the glass from Ariadne’s hand, setting it beside her. ‘So, Ariadne,’ she says, taking a tissue from a dispenser by the mirror and slathering it in makeup removal cream. ‘What brings you here?’

‘Well, you    
did   
give me the key,’ says Ariadne, getting a little of her confidence back as she watches Mal remove her lipstick. There’s a lot of junk on the counter in front of her: cellphone, tubes of lipstick, candy, a book, hairpins. Up until now it had been difficult to imagine Mal having anything so mundane as a cellphone. ‘But I was here with some friends. I’ve never been anywhere like this before,’ she adds, hoping she doesn’t sound like too much of a wide-eyed ingenue. She might as well tell the truth in this one particular instance. 

‘Maybe you will come back another night,’ says Mal, and takes a sip from her drink, reaching up one-handed to tug hairpins out of her hair. This close, Ariadne can tell that the thick-fringed black hair is a wig, far too dense and sleek to be real. There appears to be an unfeasible number of hairpins holding it on, invisible, and Mal winces as she pulls them out, some hair coming out along with them. ‘Would you mind -- ‘ says Mal, turning her eyes up to meet Ariadne’s gaze in the mirror. ‘Could you help me with this? Someone always helps me put it on at the beginning of the night, but by this time they are all too busy.’ 

‘Of course,’ says Ariadne, and steps forward to hover her hands near Mal’s head, hardly believing what’s happening. ‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Just take all the -- you know, the clips. Take them out around the back and then it should just come off.’

‘OK,’ says Ariadne, pretty much talking to herself, and begins to feel around at the warm skin at the back of Mal’s neck for bobby-pins, collecting them in one hand to put back on the counter afterwards. The hair at the nape of her neck is a little damp with sweat, and the skin there seems incredibly vulnerable and delicate under her hands. When Ariadne manages to get the wig off, it reveals a hairnet which she unpins as well, handing both to Mal. Underneath, Mal’s hair is a dark, glossy brown and is wonderful to touch as she uncoils it from its bun, skin-warmed from being trapped beneath the wig all night. When Ariadne finger-combs it out of its compressed shape it falls down in messy waves around Mal’s shoulders, and from above Ariadne can see the tips of Mal’s eyelashes flutter in pleasure. 

‘Why don’t you just keep your normal hair when you sing?’ she asks.

‘Oh, it’s not thick enough,’ says Mal. ‘They want me to have this hair like Betty Page, so I have to wear the wig.’

Ariadne is about to step back when Mal leans straight back into her hands, like an animal wanting to be petted.    
Holy shit!   
thinks the part of Ariadne’s brain that is still astonished she is even allowed in here, never mind that she is allowed to touch her. The rest of her thoughts are taken up with how soft Mal’s hair is as she combs it through her fingertips, massaging her scalp to make her mouth fall very slightly open in a sigh. It takes very serious effort not to look down Mal’s shirt in the mirror reflection, but Ariadne’s pretty sure she manages it.

With her hair down like this, Mal looks tired. Ariadne suppose she must be, if she does this every night. She doesn’t think she could command the attention of an audience like that for ten seconds, never mind for half an hour.

‘I’m glad you don’t hide your hair all the time,’ she says. ‘It’s beautiful.’

‘Thank you,’ says Mal, eyes closed. ‘You’re very good at this. I think... I wish more of my visitors were like you.’

‘Don’t you choose them yourself?’ 

She shrugs, suddenly uncomfortable, and Ariadne lets go, taking a step back. ‘They come here to talk,’ says Mal, not answering the question. ‘They always want to ask me things. And flirt.’ Her eyes open, wide and grey. ‘I picked you because I knew you would not flirt.’

‘Oh.’ She tries to keep the disappointment out of her voice. 

Mal stands, not so intimidatingly tall now she’s out of her towering shoes. ‘You don’t mind if I don’t talk, do you?’ she says.

Ariadne swallows. ‘No. Of course not.’ 

She reaches out to tuck an escaping strand of hair behind Ariadne’s ear, mirroring Ariadne’s movements of a few seconds earlier. She is standing close enough that Ariadne can smell her perfume, and Ariadne trembles as Mal strokes down the side of her face, raising goosebumps on the back of her neck. ‘...If we don’t talk?’ Mal repeats, quieter this time, and there’s a precipice-hanging moment during which Ariadne truly has no idea what is going to happen next. 

‘I’m okay with that,’ says Ariadne, almost breathing it. 

‘Usually,’ says Mal dreamily, stroking one of her long fingers down Ariadne’s cheek to tip her chin up. ‘Usually, when people come in here... all I give them is a cocktail and a kiss on the cheek.’

‘And what do they give you?’ asks Ariadne, frozen to the spot. The tip of Mal’s fingernail, sharp but not enough to be painful, is scraping the tendon of her throat.

‘I don’t know,’ she replies. ‘But at the end of it, they can say they have met me.’ 

Ariadne stares up at her, the weighty brush of Mal’s eyelashes dark against her pale skin. There’s a hint of the burgundy lipstick lingering at the corners of her mouth, still. ‘You already gave me a cocktail,’ she begins, hardly feeling able to breathe as she is pinned down by Mal’s gaze. She doesn’t know how to finish. 

Mal presses her fingertip over Ariadne’s lips,    
shhh   
, and leans in, her hair brushing Ariadne’s face in a heated, perfumed breeze. ‘There,’ she says, and Ariadne feels the breath of the word against her skin just before Mal kisses her on the cheek, the two of them still for a moment with scant inch of space between their bodies before Mal draws back. Mal is watching her, the room silent apart from the distant strains of music leaking in from the main hall. ‘But you got me a drink as well, remember?’ she says, very seriously, and it only takes a second for Ariadne to work out what she means.

She has to stand on tip-toes to reach Mal’s mouth, but that counts as well for pretty much every person she’s ever kissed. In a way it’s the most difficult kiss of her life. Usually when she kisses someone she’s on even footing with them, whether they’re on a date or in a relationship or even just hooking up at a bar. But Mal has already ensnared her so efficiently that Ariadne is half certain she’ll fly apart the first time she gets to touch her properly. 

Mal seems almost skittish, hands light and fluttering to land on Ariadne’s waist where her top meets her pants. Her lips taste a little of makeup remove and Ariadne buries a hand in Mal’s hair to pull her closer, making her fingers bunch in the hem of Ariadne’s shirt. A thrill goes through her as Mal’s breasts press against her through the thin fabric of her slip, and Ariadne doesn’t think she’s ever wanted anyone so much in her entire life. Her entire body is    
thrumming   
with it. 

It’s hard work not to end up completely gone as soon as Mal presses her up against the counter, knuckles tracing a shivering line down Ariadne’s stomach over the sheer material of her shirt. Mal is suddenly kissing like she’s desperate, like she hasn’t been kissed in a long time, which Ariadne finds very difficult to believe. But all speculation on Mal’s hypothetical past conquests flees Ariadne’s mind when Mal bends her head to kiss along her neck and down to her shoulder, sucking small points of heat across her collarbone where her shirt exposes bare skin. Ariadne gasps and has to worm a hand between their pressed-close bodies so he can rub at Mal’s nipples through her slip, thrilled to find them already hard. The noise Mal makes at that is almost like when she sings.

‘Will you -- ‘ says Ariadne, but she’s cut off by Mal’s mouth before she can complete the thought. She wants to dive straight in, willpower be damned, and touch every inch of Mal’s skin. Mal’s slip is strapless and it’s incredibly easy to pull it down just a little so she can feel the pulse underneath, beating through dampening skin. Mal’s fingers tremble at her waistband and she pulls back, the flush rising in her cheeks visible even though her makeup.

‘I should be getting dressed,’ she whispers. 

Ariadne has been living in Paris for two years now, and any fetishistic ideas she might once have had about the French accent have long since died. But somehow Mal’s voice, its vowel sounds and its soft pitch, cut Ariadne to the quick. She has to kiss her again, sliding a hand around the hem of Mal’s slip. The fabric catches a little on the tops of Mal’s stockings but Ariadne pushes it up so it’s free, not quite high enough to meet her underwear. 

‘I can help,’ she says, and Mal’s inhalation is a high noise in the back of her throat.

‘But really I shouldn’t --’ says Mal. If there were any signs of her lipstick left over from when she’d removed it, they are certainly gone now. Her eyes are still a little sad but now they’re looking at Ariadne with such heat that she shudders, stroking the smooth skin of Mal’s thigh just where her garter attaches to her stocking. She wonders how she’s can persuade Mal to change her mind. How many people must come up to her every day and tell her she’s beautiful? Hundreds, probably. With Mal’s hair a mess of tangled strands from where Ariadne has been running her fingers through it, Ariadne wants nothing more than to take her to bed and see it again like this in the morning, still a mess and still beautiful. She’s wet and about ten seconds away from squirming against Mal’s thigh, so when Mal kisses her one more time, licking slowly along Ariadne’s upper lip with the point of her tongue, Ariadne can’t stop herself from gasping out loud, choked and embarrassing. 

‘   
Ariadne   
,’ says Mal. ‘You are so... your mouth --’ And Ariadne realises that Mal has fallen back into speaking French. She has never been so glad to be bilingual. She draws back, their lips just barely brushing. ‘We don’t have time. My driver will come to check on me soon.’

Every part of Ariadne’s body wants to strain towards her again. ‘Your driver?’ 

‘Yes, the doorman takes me home so I don’t have to run for the metro. And he makes sure I’m OK. In my dressing room.’ Saying this, Mal doesn’t meet her eye.

Ariadne thinks back to whoever it is Mal must give her key to on any other night of the week. Then she tries not to think about it any more. Mal curls her hand around Ariadne’s face, thumb pressing over her lips so Ariadne has to dart her tongue out to taste it. Mal’s eyes are glittering, face half in shadow and half in the light of the vanity mirror. Ariadne wants to ask to stay for longer, but Mal’s thumb is shushing her, making her lips tingle and feel even more swollen than they had done already. She could stand here all night, just inhaling Mal’s scent. Well, maybe not just    
stand   
. 

‘Ariadne, I    
work   
here,’ Mal pleads, the palm of her hand hot where it’s inched its way under the hem of Ariadne’s shirt. 

‘How long?’ she asks, glancing towards the door. Getting kicked out of the club by an overprotective bouncer is not on her to-do list, mainly because she wants to remain as close to Mal as possible.

Mal glances at the clock. ‘Soon,’ she says, the word ending in a hitching breath as Ariadne lightly drags a fingertip around the top of her stocking, playing with the clasp attaching it to her garter belt.  

‘Then you’d better get dressed, hadn’t you?’ says Ariadne, and undoes the clasp with a flick of her thumb. She glances up to make sure Mal is following her, and unclips the other suspender, sliding her fingers under the elastic top of Mal’s stocking to drag it slowly down. There are slight indentations in her thigh where the clasps had dug in, and Ariadne rubs them with soothing fingers. Mal shivers against her. 

‘I’m so sorry,’ she says in English. ‘But we have to be faster. Wait.’ And she plucks up Ariadne’s hand from her thigh to kiss her palm, curling the fingers around it. She pulls the rest of the stocking off by herself, the other one quickly following as Ariadne looks on, dazed at the sudden exposure of creamy pale leg. Hurriedly Mal goes over to a dry-cleaning bag hanging from the side of the mirror and takes out a pair of plain black pants and a white cotton shirt, pulling them on over her underwear. A tantalising repeat of her reverse-striptease onstage earlier in the night.

‘Here, let me,’ says Ariadne, and brushes Mal’s hands out of the way so she can do up the last few buttons of Mal’s shirt, kissing the gap of skin left in the middle of the undone collar. Against the white cotton Mal’s skin looks more flushed than before, her cheeks tinged pink to match her mouth. Ariadne is about to steal another kiss, hand pressed flat against the centre of Mal’s chest over the uppermost shirt-button, when a knock comes at the door. 

‘Un moment!’ Mal calls out, and in the end it’s her that steals a kiss, not Ariadne. Ariadne is left reeling as Mal steps away to shove some things from the counter into a handbag, uselessly attempting to smooth down her hair with the other hand.

She pauses at the door, not quite touching the handle to open it. ‘Will you come back?’ she whispers, urgent, gaze flicking towards the door and back to Ariadne. Ariadne blinks in confusion, trying to clear her head. ‘Will you come back tomorrow night? To see my show?’

It takes a second for Ariadne to get the word out, hands wrapped around the edge of the counter to keep herself from stumbling over like an idiot. ‘Yes. Yes, of course I will -- ‘ she says, and has just enough time to catch the bright flash of Mal’s relieved smile before she opens the door and vanishes out into the corridor in a gust of chilled air-conditioned air, the outline of her dark hair and white shirt an after-image in Ariadne’s eyes. At the click of the closing door, Ariadne is left alone with the sound of her own breath. The room still smells of Mal’s perfume, and Ariadne can feel her touch lingering on her waist and on her mouth.

When she catches sight of herself in one of the mirrors she knows that she’s in no fit state to go out and rejoin Saito and the others. The lace strap of her shirt is pulled down to reveal a gradually-fading red mark and her face is a mess, lips dark from kissing and the eyeliner on one of her eyes smudged from where Mal must have thumbed it away. Pressing a hand to the crotch of her trousers she feels a sharp throb and is tempted just to touch herself right now, in Mal’s dressing room where anyone might just walk in. But instead she just licks her lips, oversensitised now, and remembers Mal’s hands on her so she’ll have something to look forward to when she returns tomorrow night. Maybe Mal will do a different show; Ariadne hardly cares. She’d happily watch an exact repeat of tonight’s performance, particularly if it ends with a key thrown into her lap in front of another crowd of strangers. When she comes back tomorrow night she’s going to give Mal maybe three seconds before she pushes her up against the counter and makes her sit up there while Ariadne kneels down to stroke all the way up under her slip, to unhook her garter belt entirely and tease her until she’s blushing all the way down to her navel. Mal has fair skin; it’s almost certain to go like that if Ariadne’s good. And she    
is   
good. She wonders if Mal prefers slow and torturous or if she’s feeling as urgent and desperate as Ariadne is now.

It’s a long, long time before she goes back to the main hall to reclaim her seat between Saito and Eames and to drain the melted icecube water from her glass. The audience hardly look like they've shifted at all, still all laughing at talking and dancing intimately on the dancefloor by the stage, but Ariadne is already viewing the scene with new eyes. She's already planning where she's going to sit tomorrow night.     



End file.
